Old Mortality

Having spent the last week cobbling together a paper on Percy Bysshe Shelley, it is nice to return to writing about a different author.  I have developed quite a love/hate relationship with Shelley, and I still have another 10 days to spend in his company before the deadline arrives and he leaves.  In the meantime, however, I am seriously behind in the book review department, and while being seriously behind in said matter does give me ample material on which to write meaningless ruminations, it also presents the problem of selecting which matter upon which to ruminate, a not particularly terrible problem, but nonetheless it does lead to digressions like this one (though, come to think of it, is it possible to digress before you start the subject at hand?) which will probably end only when one of the books in the stack in front of me rises up and says, “Enough is enough; write about me,” not, dear Reader that said book will actually speak, but you know what I mean.

Scott wins out.  Which isn’t really a surprise—he is the Grand Old Man of the lot, and I would really like to refile the book on the shelf in my library devoted to Scott.

As I mentioned earlier (long ago, it seems), I read Scott because Anne Fadiman mentioned uncut pages and my edition of Scott’s novels has many novels with uncut pages.  The book:

Old Mortality

An oddly named book because the title character is really just a ploy to launch into the story itself, but I suppose authors are allowed to give books odd titles in much the same way that bloggers can do the same.  Speaking of odd, I just read this morning that Marx is reported to have had a fondness for this particular book by Scott but he never mentioned the book in any of his writings.  This is the sort of useless trivia which I find far too intriguing and you, Dear Reader, simply stand astounded that anyone would ever bother to mention in a blog post—but then, as long-time readers of this space surely know, one does not come to this blog for useful information.  The best thing about the Marx anecdote is that, if true, it shows that Marx had good taste in books—though why he would like this particular Scott novel above all others is not something I can fathom—then again, Marx was presumably had more interests than Marxism.  But enough about Marx.

Scott is easily one of the most underappreciated Great Book authors in the modern age.  Once upon a time, he was The Man—he was bigger than Jane Austen.  And, as I have noted often before, I am not sure why Scott is not beloved of those who are fanatical for Austen.  Austen’s best novel is better than anything Scott wrote, but nonetheless, Scott’s best is as good as Austen’s other work.  He has fantastic characters in romantic locations doing heroic and chivalrous deeds.

Old Mortality is about one of the many conflicts between the Scotland and England.  But, it is a multi-sided affair, with the Scots divided between the radical and moderate Presbyterians, and the English divided between the accommodating and harsh overlords.  Our hero, a moderate Presbyterian, is seeking to navigate his way between the bloodthirsty radical Presbyterians and the English who want to stamp out the radicals.  Our hero's love interest is torn between our hero and an English soldier, whose loyalties are torn between Crown and the fact that he owes his life to our hero.  The leader of the radical Presbyterians is alternately trying to convert and kill our hero.  The leader of the local English army troop is alternately trying to hang and enlist the aid of our hero.  There are a host of memorable minor characters, some of whom speak in marvelously fun Scottish brogue.

The central conflict of the book is figuring out how to navigate in a world where the extremes are constantly threatening to tear everything apart. 

For example:

“You are right,” said Claverhouse, with a smile; “you are very right—we are both fanatics; but there is some distinction between the fanaticism of honour and that of dark and sullen superstition.”

“Yet you both shed blood without mercy or remorse,” said Morton, who could not suppress his feelings.

“Surely,” said Claverhouse, with the same composure; "but of what kind?—There is a difference, I trust, between the blood of learned and reverend prelates and scholars, of gallant soldiers and noble gentlemen, and the red puddle that stagnates in the veins of psalm-singing mechanics, crackbrained demagogues, and sullen boors;—some distinction, in short, between spilling a flask of generous wine, and dashing down a can full of base muddy ale?”

“Your distinction is too nice for my comprehension,” replied Morton. “God gives every spark of life—that of the peasant as well as of the prince; and those who destroy his work recklessly or causelessly, must answer in either case.”

The extremes are so nicely done that rather than simply viewing them as extremes which can be dismissed, both of the extremes are allowed to make their case in a thoroughly persuasive manner.  After all, if the radical Presbyterians are right in their theology, then surely any compromise with the Crown and the Anglican church is siding with Evil.  And if the English are right that order needs to be preserved in a state, then surely the uncompromising radical Presbyterians need to be ruthlessly suppressed—after all there is no way to compromise with them.  So, in the face of that, is it right to try to craft a middle ground or is such a middle ground simply a wishy-washy attempt to muddle the Truth?  And how far does a personal debt of honor extend?  What compromises must be made when one owes something to an individual on the other side of a grand debate?  Those debts of honor lie everywhere in this book, and the grand causes keep intruding.

In the end, I think the book teaches the importance of Honor.  A much neglected virtue, that.  Perhaps it is time for a Scott revival.